


The Claiming

by VerdantMoth



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Magic, Rape Recovery, Rape/Non-con Elements, Soul Bond, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmates, dark uther
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-14
Updated: 2018-03-26
Packaged: 2019-08-23 16:59:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 7
Words: 3,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16622837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VerdantMoth/pseuds/VerdantMoth
Summary: Gwaine is unsure the exact order of events. Merlin cries out like he has been stabbed in the chest. Gwaine himself collapses into the snow. Arthur moves past the knight and lifts Merlin by his shoulders. He removes the cloth from around his neck.Gwaine doesn’t watch, because he doesn’t need to. He can hear Merlin begging Arthur not to, to let the bond go on unconfirmed. He tries not to listen to Arthur’s apologies, to the slicing of the sword drawing blood, to fingers smearing it into that living galaxy.





	1. Chapter 1

It’s snowing around them, as Gwaine huddles in close to Merlin. He tells himself it’s for the body heat, that is, because the blankets are thin and their shirts, thinner. He almost convinces himself it has nothing to do with Merlin’s tactile nature; the way he curls into Gwaine, all sharp edges and soft skin. Gwaine ignores the way Merlin doesn’t immediately pull way when he slings his arm around the tall male. It is cold, after all.  

Merlin startles, but Gwaine doesn't think he has anything to do with it. "Shh, Gwaine. Did you hear that?"

Gwaine tilts his head, listening. The truth is, all he’d heard was Merlin’s slow breaths and the pop of the fire. But he stands slowly, making sure the blanket stays secure on Merlin’s shoulders. He doesn’t miss the shudder that wracks through the servant. Damned be Arthur and Uther.

He has his sword at the ready and he steps cautiously towards the bushes. At first, he thinks Merlin is imagining it, but then he hears it; soft boots over snow, the rustle of a cloak. He turns towards Merlin with wide eyes, and watches their golden glow as the fire puffs out, smokeless.

The figure pauses, like the fire had drawn them in. Gwaine half hopes it is enough to keep them away, but then they pick back up, slowly. There is an intensity to the movement, a purpose Gwaine cannot put into words, but that he knows instinctively.

“Your Highness. Come to finish your father’s work?”

Gwaine feels Merlin’s gasp between his own ribs, but he has no time for gentleness as the Prince breaks through the trees, a gleaming sword raised.

“You took what was mine, Sir Gwaine. I cannot allow it.” His eyes are empty and his voice steady, even as he gentle moves Gwaine’s sword away with his own.

“Was I to leave him there for your father to burn?” Gwaine returns the gesture, silent apology in the slowness. He may not approve of Uther, but he respected Arthur once. He’s startled by the pain that briefly flash in Arthur’s eyes but he does not lower his weapon.

“My father has no authority over my destined.”

Everything goes quiet. Gwaine feels like he cannot see, cannot breathe, like he has entered a space where nothing exist. “You lie.”

Arthur gives him a smile that is half amused, but mostly bitter. “I had to save him Gwaine. I presented my mark to the court.”

Behind him, Merlin gives a cry, strangled and wounded. Arthur ignores it in favor of unclasping his cloak and removing his tunic. There, on his left ribs, an explosion of gold and purple and deep blues, like a night sky. It moves and writhes against his tan flesh.

Gwaine is unsure the exact order of events. Only that Merlin cries out like he has been stabbed in the chest. Gwaine himself collapses into the snow. Arthur moves past the knight and lifts Merlin by his shoulders. He removes the cloth from around his neck.

Gwaine doesn’t watch, because he doesn’t need to. He can hear Merlin begging Arthur not to, to let the bond go on unconfirmed. He tries not to listen to Arthur’s apologies, to the slicing of the sword drawing blood, to fingers smearing it into that living galaxy.

He cannot avoid the blinding light as the two become one; he could not see the regret in Merlin’s eyes and the sorrow in Arthur’s. He refuses to hear Arthur’s apology, his explanation.

“I had to save him.”

They will never forgive Uther for this.


	2. The Consequence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur can’t recall another time he’s made Merlin cry. “Just this once, my friend.”

Not once, in all his years, had anyone ever asked Arthur about his soul-mark. Not even the servant boy who must’ve known they were bonded before he ever helped Arthur dress, who must have always wondered why he had ended up in Camelot, what strange force compelled him to Arthur’s chambers, despite their initial disdain for each other.

But he hadn’t. Not even when his winter-thorn fingers had trailed over the mark, under the guise of checking a wound. Arthur had ground his teeth. Merlin must have felt it then, that same bitter-sharp burst of recognition shuddering through his core.

But he had remained silent, and so had Arthur.

He wonders if it was the magic, that had made his servant so reticent. Certainly Merlin was aware that Arthur had known of it the first time fingers brushed his mark, and his mind nearly exploded with the rush of emotions and memories. The sorcerer had to have felt that rush of warmth and contentment, the promise in both of them. They were safe, he thinks, before Uther knew; before Merlin had so foolishly tried to protect Arthur with glowing eyes in front of everyone. Before Arthur had been forced to turn on him.

Now he stands in front of his intended and keeps his face blank in the wake of that rage. He can feel the white ribboning of flesh above his right elbow. If Merlin is conscious of this healing, he shows nothing.

Arthur must do this. He knows it. What he doesn’t know is how to explain the knights gripping Merlin by the shoulders and shove him to his knees. They’re as gentle as they can be due to his thrashing.

It’s only Arthur’s connection that keeps Merlin’s magic at bay.

What a stupid, foolish king that man was to dream of such a bonding. What spiteful, vengeful witch to need a public claiming to complete it.

“There has to be another way.”

Arthur can’t recall another time he’s made Merlin cry. “Just this once, my friend.”


	3. The Aftermath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Uther hates that his son claimed Merlin.

Uther is salivating when they return, and Merlin cannot help his shudder. He has seen that look in Uther’s eyes before; seen the broken bodies of his playthings, the boys and girls left rotting in the pig’s styes.

When he cuts a look behind Arthur and Merlin, and disappointment bleeds through his insane fevered look, Merlin almost sobs in thankfulness that Arthur sent Gwaine away.

“You bring me a present, son?” Uther steps off his podium and stalks towards them, rough fingers already scraping over Merlin’s neck, forcing their way past his lips, down his throat. He’s gentler on the horses he inspects than he is with Merlin. Arthur makes no move to stop his father, simply leans against a pillar, eyes calculating. He’s waiting for something.

The moment Uther’s rough hands find the bloodied mark beneath Merlin’s scarf, he turns on his son. He’s foaming at the mouth and distant in the eyes, like a man possessed. Merlin tries not to think about what exactly posses the king, even as he grips his own son in a bruising grip.

The way Uther holds his son is violent, fingers gripping his jaw so that the pop echoes around the throne room. There is an intimacy to it that churns like soured milk in Merlin’s stomach, but he has no sympathy for the prince.

Icy pain shoots through the mark on his neck and the pink-ribbon cut on his arms, and without conscious decision he throws his hands up. Uther is propelled away from his son. He doesn’t seem to notice, saliva flying around as he curses at Arthur. “This boy was to be mine! I told you.”

Any other words the king might have are silence by the tip of the sword at his throat. Arthur’s eyes are still empty, but Merlin’s neck throbs with the heat of anger that is not his.

“No one has the authority to take another’s destined. To do so is a crime of the highest order.” Arthur steps away from his father and turns to study the crowd gathered around them. “I could have your throne for this.”

He cuts his eyes towards Merlin and mouths an apology before addressing the crowd. “But i’d rather take it as half a completed claiming.”

Merlin gasp; his knees buckle and he falls with a sob. Surely Arthur cannot mean it.

Uther grins, ferocious and all teeth. “You have no proof of consummation.”

Arthur shrugs. “We could complete the bond here, now. You always did enjoy a good show.”

Uther lunges towards Merlin but Arthur steps between them, sword raised once more. “To touch a claimed, even an unbonded one, is to risk death, Father.”

Merlin has never heard Arthur speak so cruelly to anyone, but he does not miss the slight tremor in the last word. Arthur, in a move of bravery or stupidity, turns his back on the king. He flicks his wrist and several guards step forward to restrain the king.

It is a testament to how terrible his life has become that the betrayal is only a splinter when he sees Gwaine in the midst. Uther is no fool though. “If you take him this way, are you really any better than me, Son?”

Arthur shrugs. “I will take him once. Any other time will be his choice.


	4. The Beginning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He grips her hands in his small ones. “But it’s a crime to steal a match! It..” he tries to remember what the elders had to say. “It corrupts the wrongly claimed marked, makes them...”  
> “Makes them like feral beast,” Hunith finishes.

In the beginning, he’d thought the mark made him special. The strange scarring of purples, deep pinks and blues smeared across his skin, struck through with swarming stars. None of the other children in his tiny village had a mark; none of them were special and a part of him hated his mother for making him keep it covered, hidden.

It wasn’t until he was a little older, until a small girl was born with patches of incandescent, shifting, gold scales across her shoulders, that he began to understand the curse of a bond mark. His mother tied a piece of cloth around his neck and they watched as soldiers ripped the girl away to whomever shared her pattern. Her mother, for reasons his young mind couldn’t understand, was sent away and her father murdered in battle.

His mother said “They used to be rare.” He stared at her. “Once upon a time, Kings married for alliances and money. But as time went by, those marriages couldn’t be trusted. So one day, a King, on the eve of choosing his betrothed, asked a high priestess to help him. To mark the person who would be their best match, the least likely to betray him.”

Merlin already knows this story, though. “But he said it wrong,” he interrupts. “Whatever spell he used, made it so his children and their children and all children of any throne would bear a mark.”

His mother smiles, sad and distant. “Yes, the priestess did not care for his idea of nobility, his need to keep his line pure. So when she created the spell, she touched any child born of noble blood, both that of the king’s throne, and that of the earth.”

He ponders it a moment. “Morg’s mother and father weren’t nobility.”

Hunith cups Merlin’s face. “I know, my son. That is why they took her.”

“What will happen to her?”

Hunith looks at him, and the pain in her eyes makes his stomach churn. She pulls him into a hug so tight it hurts, but he can feel the fear in her, so he lets it happen. “Someone will claim her. She better hope it is her intended, because a soul-marked who is claimed by someone else...” she trails off.

He doesn’t know what happens next, except that it’s bad. “Where is your mark?”

Hunith tilts her head at him curiously.

He blinks at her. “I have a mark, you must have a mark.”

“Clever boy.” She shifts her dress so that he can see the beautiful dragon markings that dance along her calf. “I’m of a natural throne.”

“Not one behind a castle, but one who is heir to the earth?” he questions.

She throws back her head and laughs, Merlin loves it when she laughs.

“In a manner of speaking, yes.”

“Why does mine look different?”

“Yours is kissed by the galaxies, Merlin. Your intended must be very special and you must keep your mark hidden until you find your match. Should you fall into the hands of another...”

He grips her hands in his small ones. “But it’s a crime to steal a match! It..” he tries to remember what the elders had to say. “It corrupts the wrongly claimed marked, makes them...”

“Makes them like feral beast,” Hunith finishes. “It is the worst sort of crime, to steal a claiming.”

Merlin wants to be done with this conversation, but he has one more question. “Where is your match, Mother?”

Hunith grips him tightly. “We did not complete the bonding. He was afraid to make his claim public, and so the Serpent King tried to claim him. I don’t know what happened exactly, except that he is safe.”

Something shifts in the underbrush, frightening her. She tightens his scarf once more and then pulls him towards home. “Come along Merlin. You’ve chores to do. We will talk of this no more.”


	5. The Act

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Merlin had asked Morgana, once, what the public claiming was like. The pity in her eyes, the way she’d rested her hand on his cheek, it had told him everything.

Merlin had asked Morgana, once, what the public claiming was like. The pity in her eyes, the way she’d rested her hand on his cheek, it had told him everything. He remembered her completion; the surprise of everyone when Princess Elena stalked into Camelot with the golden scales writhing up her arm. Uther’s purple face, the hate he’d had for the foreign princess... Morgana had spared both herself and her intended when she’d stepped off the dias and lifted her skirts.

Merlin had not watched, uncomfortable with the gentle intimacy the girls had shared, being on display for the vultures of the court. He’d seen the hungry looks of those around him, the the way their intensive gaze tracked their movements.

Later though, he’d seen the aftermath of Uther’s rage; the small, dark haired servant who he had abandoned in a corridor. Morgana had told him once, months afterwards, that anyone could have walked through that door and she would have lifted her skirts.

“The intended, that bond,” she sighed, and there’s something wistful in it, that made Merlin jealous. “It’s like nothing you’ve ever felt, finding the one who is perfect for you.” Elena stepped in and smiled, pulling Morgana close. “It’s finding the piece to fill the hole you didn't know you had.”

Maybe he’d been foolish then, to think he could avoid the public display. Merlin was fine with absence in his chest. He had lived this long without it, and he never wanted to feel hungry eyes on him that way. His stomach churns with nausea and his skin prickles with unease. Already he can feel a clammy sweat building on his skin.

Morseo, he had never once wanted to force Arthur into such a bonding. Forever was a long time to be tied to a man who sometimes seemed to loathe your existence.

Yet, here he was, arms bound at his back, presented to Arthur and the courts and Uther. The king stalked forward, eyes glassy as he studied Merlin.

“Arthur, if you do not proceed, you will find yourself in a battle for the sorcerer.”

A knight raised a sword towards the king who seemed undisturbed. Merlin watched as Arthur turned towards his father, and hated the empty look that was back in his eyes. “You cannot touch him for seven days after the claim is initiated, father. The journey back only took three.”

“Please, do not do this.” Merlin felt no shame at the wet sob stuck in his throat. “We can survive without the completion.”

Arthur refused to meet his eyes, but Merlin felt his thoughts. “Can you not see, this is for your protection?”

“I can leave Camelot forever. This does not need to happen.” His heart pounds as Arthur raises a hand and a Percival steps forward. The towering knight refuses to make eye contact as he hands the prince a small jar.

Merlin searches the crowds frantically for Gwaine, for the only knight who has seen this event for the madness it was. He knows Arthur is aware of his glances, but it is Percival who kneels beside him and whispers, “they have bound him below, to prevent him from stopping this.”

Merlin has never once wished harm on a knight, until this moment; until he is stripped of his clothing, until he can feel the starved eyes of a court waiting for a show.

Arthur positions himself behind Merlin, doing his best to block the view. Merlin knows he should appreciate the gesture, but when the first fingers, cold and slick breech him, he cannot help but cry out.

“Please, I beg of you-” he screws his eyes shut as a rag is shoved in his mouth and tears begin to stream down his face. Arthur is as gentle as he can be, but Merlin is unused to the intrusion, to the stretch.

When Arthur finally enters him, Merlin hears the crowd gasp, as if they too thought the Prince might have been too noble for such an act. Merlin lets his mind go blank. He does not want to be present when the completion occurs.


	6. The Reprecussions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hates him, because Merlin can feel the guilt that forces itself out of Arthur each morning and the sorrow that keeps him up each night.

Arthur hates his mark. Never before has he despised the galaxy on his abdomen until it burned like ice. And he knows, deep in himself, in that part he doesn’t like to visit, that he has messed up. It is clear in the way Merlin moves, distant and slow. It shows in the way his blue are clouded and vacant, and in the way he trembles.

He has never trembled in Arthur’s presence before. Never shaken when Arthur places a hand on his shoulder or flinched when Arthur’s voice snuck into his ear from behind.

His mark swirls, and the beautiful purples and blues and reds dull to bitter greys. It is a constant storm limiting his appetite and racing back and forth against his skin in a flurry of angry motion. He can only wonder what Merlin’s mark is doing on his neck.

He had hoped, in the beginning, that Merlin would wear his mark. Proud and defiant, after the claiming.

He had hoped that their completion would have been a joyous event. Not this mess of ownership and power.

The only relief he can find is that Uther will not touch Merlin ever. The only relief, that he himself will be Uther’s demise.

\---

Merlin has heard about others who live in the fog of their minds. Has heard about how they move, as if through slushy water. But he never assumed he would join them.

Even now, when the world is suddenly muted and every movement takes effort and his breath weighs down his chest, he is unsure if he has joined them.

His neck throbs, constantly, the way his body did in the first few days. In some ways, he thinks he should hate Arthur. Hates him for the thing he took, for the cruelty of hands that were gentle and thrusts that were soft.

Hates him, because Merlin can feel the guilt that forces itself out of Arthur each morning and the sorrow that keeps him up each night.

He doesn’t mean to jump when Arthur gets his attention, doesn't mean to flinch when Gwen brushes hair from his face. He despises the sobs that crawl out each time Uther’s eyes catch his own. Everytime he sees the sheen of sweat that tells him someone else was forced to give Uther what Merlin no longer can.

\---

Uther knows his time is nearing, each time the servant boy sobs. He can see the fury in his son’s eyes, see the way they glow with a need for revenge. He ignores it though, because his son is weak. A man who would not claim his beloved until it was too late.

Uther takes his fears out on the knight left in the dungeon, forgotten by the prince he swore his fealty to. Forgotten by the servant who fled with him.

\---

Arthur doesn’t kill his father until Gwaine’s body shows up in the pig stye, broken and battered. He has him moved before Merlin can see him, and he prays no one tells Merlin of the carnage. Although, he wonders how much is really getting through to Merlin, who walks about as if he is both blind and deaf.

Merlin is there though, when Arthur confronts Uther in the throne room. He accuses him of terrible, terrible things. Uther laughs in his face and no one dares pick a side between father and son.

When he runs Uther through with his sword, he feels the first pleasant spark of peace in his belly. Merlin’s eyes, though not clear, are a little less distant.

Arthur wonders then, if hope is not dead.


	7. The Future

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He is speaking to Arthur, after a year of silence. “I will wait, Merlin. If it means forever. I will take only what you give.”  
> He doesn’t say it, but he knows Merlin hears “however small it may be.” He means it.

They’re standing in front of a simple stone marker when it happens; the simplest brushing of elbows. It sends warm coils through Arthur though, soft little tendrils that curl in his belly and around his heart. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t shift his position, doesn’t in anyway draw attention to the touch.

Three years; that is how long it has been since he last had any sort of contact with Merlin. He doesn’t- it is not as though he faults Merlin, for his distance. He can’t.

He’d never thought he’d be blessed enough to feel Merlin’s skin against his ever again.

In fact, after that first year, he’d thought Merlin was lost to him entirely, despite the marks on their flesh. He touches his now, brushes his fingers over the cloth of his abdomen. Merlin startles, and Arthur watches him run a finger over his neck. He doesn't miss the way Merlin cuts his eyes towards him, but he makes no move towards him.

Arthur hesitates, tentatively reaches his hand out, stopping when he can feel the heat of skin not yet touched. Merlin shakes his head and Arthur pulls back.

“I forgive you, Arthur.”

Arthur nods, as if he did not know. As if Merlin hasn’t been doing so every day for the last two years in small ways; sitting beside him at banquets, lingering alone in rooms after meetings. Agreeing to strolls such as this.

Speaking to Arthur, after a year of silence. “I will wait, Merlin. If it means forever. I will take only what you give.”

He doesn’t say it, but he knows Merlin hears “however small it may be.” He means it.

“I will marry you, Arthur. If that is what you wish. But I cannot give to you my body. I cannot promise I ever will.”

Arthur nods, and then pauses. “I-” he has no way to explain, this feeling in him. Though he longs for Merlin’s hands in his, to wrap his arms around his intended, he has no desire for anything more. Anything deeper.

Merlin though, nods anyway. “It curdles in your gut, the idea of…” Merlin shudders. Still, he reaches his hand out gently, and does not flinch when Arthur grips it. Hesitantly at first, then tightly. He wonders if the mark Merlin keeps covered is warm and swirling the way his own is. He imagines he can see it glowing, beneath the dark scrap of cloth.

This, he decides, is the beginning of a future of forgiveness.

 


End file.
